Ramming my submission home

28 April 2015

Mistress

I am a submissive male.

I only know what it is to be submissive.

In my puberty and teens I did begin to realise I was different. It was the sixties. The girls with their Suzy Quant style hairdos and make up all had that disinterested, aloof look. It was the fashion and fashion was the be all and end all. The realities of life meant there were in fact two clothes fashions. There was the fashion controlled by localised peer pressure which dictated what was worn day by day, and the Carnaby Street Fashion from London which dictated the dress for parties and night clubs.

The day to day fashion was unisex. Tight, sky blue jeans were virtually a compulsory uniform out of school, in the evenings, weekends and including dates to the pictures or coffee bars. When I say tight, I do mean tight. The outer shape of external genitalia was on full display. Our cock and balls didn’t just create a bulge, the jeans were so tight you could distinguish every item. The camel toe of every girl was proudly displayed like a beguiling receptacle. The inviting nature of their labia majora was not compatible with their aloof, unobtainable expression which was part of the fashion at that time.

Despite the perception that it was the “anything goes” 60s, actual penetrative sex amongst teenagers was not as widespread as history would imply. The pill was not freely available to girls of this age and yet there was always an example of girl becoming pregnant at a ridiculously young age. The attitude towards this girl amongst her peers was nowhere near as sympathetic as it would be today. Becoming pregnant was something to be avoided and the means of ensuring it did not happen, very uncertain. As a consequence physical relationships between young males and young females consisted of heavy petting and more importantly ramming.

Ramming was the local term used for it. I don’t think it appeared in any dictionary so it probably had as many different local terms as the bread roll, cob or batch.

Ramming meant the tight, sky blue jeans did not come off. That was convenient in view of how difficult they were to take off and prise on. The “moment” would certainly be lost as individuals ungainly tried to peel off their jeans by arching and contorting their bodies in the most improbable positions. The jeans stayed on and bodies would press and grind together against walls, on floors, settees and on beds. It invariably culminated in the male thrusting himself against his partner, breathing heavily and groaning as he climaxed. The invariable dark wet stain contrasted noticeably against the light blue of the jeans. There was no attempt to hide it. It was a trophy for both.

Overheard conversations between females indicated that the girl saw the wet stain as an achievement. She’d been able to induce his cock to do this. Her body was up to the job. She’d induced him to cum. The spunk stain was her procurement. Conversations between males however suggested a different view. The stain was tantamount to his conquest. The closest we could get to actual fucking. After all he’d experienced orgasm, he’d had the ultimate pleasure. How else could it be viewed?

The fact that the girls, when talking in a group, saw the ability to make a man cum as an achievement, and males saw it as evidence of conquest does indicate a dynamic. The girls felt good that they were able to please and the males felt good at taking their pleasure. Peer pressure was so important at that age. It took a lot of strength to let people know you were different, and yet we now know that amongst both the boys and girls there would be those who were not like the others.

I was one of them.

Looking back to those early days I can now pick out three examples of my burgeoning submission.

Firstly, I believed the unobtainable, “don’t bother me”, “men are a nuisance” look. I believed it and it aroused me. Whereas it was clear my mates could see through it. They had more faith and confidence in the female’s desire for the male and acted accordingly. I, on the other hand, acted as a submissive would act. I gave the woman what I perceived she wanted. I didn’t generally bother or disturb them despite clear evidence that the vast majority of girls preferred the “less considerate” approach. I effectively made the available, unavailable and thereby gave it a greater value and put it on a pedestal. Only when clearly invited by the girl would I “bother them”.

Secondly, I felt a guilt and a humiliation when I rammed my very first girl friends. I didn’t see it as a prize. I was very aware of the unbalanced nature of the act. The one sided pleasure did not sit easily with me. My body however had other ideas. I ground and thrust like my fellow males, but my spunk stains were seen by me as an indication of the power the girl had over me. As I climaxed I had this sense of defeat and surrender. I could, and still can, understand how the sensation as the muscle explodes and releases the pent up juice can feel like conquest, but with me, the sense that it is submission and a sign of defeat was, and still is, always paramount.

Finally, it was during this period that my very first senses of cuckold occurred. Liking a girl and yet seeing her labia majora virtually invite another mans cock to her, and at that same time having such a clear image of the offending, potentially victorious cock through his jeans, sent me to my bed on many occasions feeling bitter, deprived, hurt and yet aroused.

There would be nights I would wank myself to sleep with the thoughts of her and him in their tight jeans grinding and thrusting together. The next evening my wet thoughts would often be confirmed as the girl and her man would exit from their secret place with the tell tale sign of their smiles of achievement and a spreading wet spunk stain on his jeans.